


what's it gonna be?

by elossa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexual Ginny Weasley, F/F, F/M, POC Pansy Parkinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elossa/pseuds/elossa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they danced, she watched Ginny’s eyes fade from black to tawny brown and back to black, and she found herself watching those eyes more than her feet.</p>
<p>(Or the one where Ginny and Pansy take dancing classes and end up with a lot more of each other than they bargained for.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's it gonna be?

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the HP Femslash Big Bang on Tumblr. Thank you to my beta, Oliver, @lupinpotter, and Manda, @mr--lafayette.

When the Wizengamot failed to place Pansy Parkinson in Azkaban, even  _ she  _ was positively outraged. Though she may have not been an active Death Eater, she was an active sympathiser. Plus, she tried to give the Boy Who Lived up to the Dark Lord himself, which she thought was a large enough leverage to send her behind bars for life. So why did they not just give her the Kiss already?

Daphne had told her that perhaps if everyone just followed her advice and gave him up the battle would have been finished  _ hours earlier _ and with  _ less _ casualties, assuming whatever made him survive the Killing Curse the  _ second _ time round still worked in that alternate universe. Pansy pointed out that a fair few of those were Death Eaters and in this ‘new Ministry’ no one gave two shits about them.

The worst part about her verdict was that she was stripped of her wand for a year and forced to repatriate in Muggle London. This was a fate she and Malfoy shared, so it made sense for them to share an apartment. She would rather that they  _ both _ be confused about uh-vens and electric kettles in  _ one  _ house so that the Ministry does not have to worry about two.

To prove her acclimatisation to the Muggle world, she had to willingly leave her residence on a regular basis and fulfil a list of things: one, to  _ work  _ in a  _ Muggle establishment;  _ two, somehow make it back to Diagon Alley  _ without a wand _ to go to DERC - Death Eater  _ Rehabilitation  _ Centre, it didn’t matter that she never had the mark - every week for  _ therapy;  _ and three, not set the house on fire.

Not setting the house on fire proved harder and harder every minute, what with the stove being  _ literally made out of fire  _ and the stuff that made the lights go on being the exact same stuff that made up lightning. It took approximately a week before Draco explained to neighbours that he was from an Amish community on his Rumspringa (how did he even come up with such an excuse?) and therefore had no clue how to work a microwave before they could be hermits every night and watch Friends on the telly.

Draco and Pansy at least succeeded in one aspect: their jobs. Merely a clerk at a Muggle research firm, Draco took great joy in being the office gossip and trying to reap all of the scientific knowledge that came into those papers in order to advance his position within the company. Pansy worked as a waitress in a restaurant, and it took her all of her patience to prevent her from pouring water all over customers’ heads when they gripped her arse. Thankfully, seven years of Slytherin House had ensured that passive-aggressive and forced kindness came naturally.

When the year was over, Pansy didn’t want to go back to Parkinson House, mostly because she wasn’t entirely sure if she would ever be welcome back in Wizarding high society. After being rampantly ignored by Daphne’s parents, she realised that she would never really be at home, not anymore, and so she continued to stay in her stuffy Muggle apartment with Draco, who also made the choice not to go back. Not properly.

During one of her counselling sessions, the Healer asked her if she solely came to these whether because it was obligation or because she actually found solace in speaking of her emotions. She replied with a curt sip of her tea.

After the meeting, with her cloak up around her eyes and her giveaway nose, Pansy picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet for the first time in two years. She browsed through the magazine at home (Draco had wondered why she was reading utter crud) before she did find something worth living for. It was a dance that she had ached to learn before she debuted in high society. That was  _ clearly  _ not going to happen anymore, but there was no reason that she couldn’t learn it for kicks.

* * *

The Boy Who Lived became the Man Who Died.

When Ron, Hermione and Ginny met up with him at St, Mungo’s two weeks after the war, they  _ knew _ . The Healers were looking grave and said that rebounding the Killing Curse twice has had a severe impact on his system. That, and all of the internal damage from all the Dark magic he’d encountered snowballed into a ball of cancer that had grown into a large tree in his body, with far-reaching branches that left nothing untouched.

Then, Harry was still able. He was a little slow on the uptake of things, but at least he could walk and eat and all of the other Mrs Gren shit. They knew he would deteriorate soon, and quickly too.

The first thing Harry did when he heard the news – aside from calling the three dearest people in his life – was to break up with Ginny, because he was a  _ chivalrous little shit  _ who could not stand to watch the person he loved grieve for him. She had fought against it with all four limbs, of course, saying that he was being stupid to think that she would ever break up with him just because he was  _ dying  _ but he had put his foot down on it and she hadn’t the heart to refuse.

Over the next couple of weeks, Harry and Ginny continued to live together even though she was signed to the Holyhead Harpies and was often out for days at a time and therefore  _ the last person  _ qualified to care for him. As for Hermione and Ron, they too suffered some adverse effects, but the former was too busy finishing school to bother dealing with them and Ron sometimes  _ forgot  _ his brother died and his best friend was on the way there, only for the realisation to sink in and send him into a full-blown panic attack.

When it was obvious that Harry was too far gone to really  _ be  _ anyone anymore, the tough moment came to decide whether he continued to live like a vegetable or die the man he always wanted to be. There had been such a ruckus over it no one had bothered to check his last will and testament and once they did, he had already passed on.

The funeral had been a tense affair, what with half of Wizarding Britain begging to get to mourn The Boy Who Saved Their Hides in public, and the funeral fell a year to the day he did so. In the end, those Harry really knew ever got to go. In a small party that was made up of Dumbledore’s Army and Order of the Phoenix members, the atmosphere was quiet and sombre. No one spoke much and there was a lot of crying – mostly coming from Fleur Delacour when she went into labour near the end of the ceremony.

_ Yes, trust  _ her _ to show Harry up at his  _ own funeral, Ginny thought bitterly.

The weeks after his death were the worst. Hermione moved to the States without warning, apparently to a company that allows Muggles and wizards to collaborate over some science matter or other. Ron drunk himself to death every night without fail, and Ginny could not help but dream vivid nightmares about Tom Riddle coming back, just waiting for the right moment to corner her and possess her little body again.

Things only got better when Luna moved in with her at her insistence after a messy break-up with Neville. The former Ravenclaw had a way with words – and Sleeping Draught – that made Ginny rest easy. Eventually, when the redhead found herself wanting to kiss the blonde, she asked Luna out on a date – a proposal she readily said yes to. When she realised she had no clue where to take her, she flicked through the classifieds in the Daily Prophet, found an interesting enough class, and signed them both up for it.

As much as it pained her to say it, it was high time for her to move on.

* * *

 

A constellation of pale, pink dots on the ceiling illuminated the room. It turned the room into a garish shade of salmon that made Pansy’s nose wrinkle, her lips stretched downward in a perpetual frown. The music playing was one of Beethoven’s more obscure compositions; the Wizarding world had a large fondness for the composer, if only because he was the only true musician that was still remembered from the eighteenth century.

Her mood continued to sour when she saw that it was Cho Chang that was leading the class. The weepy Ravenclaw that she had once teased at school now stood with her chin up, her neck wearing the angry red lines that could have only come from the claws of Fenrir Greyback.

However, the kick in the teeth came when she saw who exactly Chang had decided to partner her up with. With long red hair, a smattering of freckles on her nose, and bright blue eyes, Pansy was  _ simmering  _ once she came face to face with Ginevra Molly Weasley. She snuck a glance at the instructor, who partnered herself up with Loony Lovegood.

Thankfully, Pansy did not have to touch or look at her partner for the first lesson. Cho worked through the footwork quickly, and though the former Slytherin was familiar with many of the steps – they were reminiscent of the ballet she had been taught as a child – she constantly had trouble keeping up with them. Meanwhile, next to her, Weasley was keeping up without much trouble, her crimson hair spinning gracefully with her as her feet shifted from first to third to fourth with ease.

That day, when she came home from classes, the first thing she did was to open a bottle of cheap wine (she could only afford Tesco’s Finest, much to her dismay) and drain the first half before Draco came home from work at the accounting firm. He saw her drunken state and placed the bottle away from her, cradling her head in his lap as she continued to slur.

“It’s so  _ stupid,  _ y’know, that we  _ still  _ get punished f – for being  _ scared,  _ for being  _ afraid  _ to stand u – up to our  _ parents.  _ I m – mean, we’re not  _ stupid;  _ we know that blood doesn’t matter because Lord  _ fucking  _ Voldemort doesn’t  _ care  _ about your lineage. He just wants  _ power _ . What m – makes him any different from my dad or  _ your  _ dad, Draco? Why does the Muggle world have television? Why does the Tube get so  _ crowded _ ? Why can Weasley pick up those stupid,  _ stupid  _ dancing routines that we’re never going to practically need in real life before I can?”

Draco sighed, brushing her hair out of her face. “I don’t know, Pansy. I don’t know.” He began to smirk once she mentioned the Weaslette. “Ooh, careful there. Are you  _ jealous  _ of her?”

“No,” Pansy replied, answering way too quickly. She watched Draco’s smirk widen, his pearly white teeth glimmering in that cartoonish way she detested.

“Oh my God, Pans,” Draco said, his pitch rising in imitation of the receptionist of the building next door he so often insulted. “You are  _ so  _ jealous.”

Pansy hissed through her teeth, suddenly sitting up. She tucked her knees close to her chest, wrapping her arms around her calves. “Shut  _ up,  _ Draco.”

The blond laughed, undeterred by the vicious expression the brunette had on her face. His large hand gently brushed her back in a sweeping, soothing motion. She stared up at him, her eyes somewhat red and her cheeks stained with tears. Pretending to take no notice of her face, Draco leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“All of this, all that we went to war for, it was  _ never  _ true, was it?”

“Probably not, but they had a reason to believe in it. Reasons that we don’t have to think about anymore because we don’t have a madman chasing us anymore. It was all we knew.” He cradled her body in his arms. “Come. Let’s go to bed. We both have work tomorrow.”

Pansy groaned. “I don’t  _ wanna.” _

Draco rolled his eyes, lifting her with ease. “Don’t be ridiculous, Pansy. Whining like a spoiled brat is  _ my  _ job now. At least you get to  _ choose  _ your shifts.”

“Of course I get to choose them. I got fired.”

* * *

 

Parkinson didn’t pick up the steps very well, and that was something Ginny caught on very quickly. The former Slytherin had an amusing scowl on her face whenever Cho was running through a new move, her nose flaring as her tiny, dainty feet stumbled with each quick pas de chat and pirouette. Though not trained in classical ballet herself, the redhead was fast and observant: a requirement for her day job.

At some point, Ginny was  _ tempted  _ to grab the woman by the wrist and tell her that she was overthinking things and making a mountain out of a molehill, but soon decided that she would rather deal with the predatory glare she was sent every time she so much looked in her direction rather than the shrieks the redhead heard so often when she passed the Slytherin dungeons.

(Not like she passed them by  _ often,  _ but that was hardly the point.)

After her second lesson of dance, Ginny and Luna headed down to the Leaky Cauldron in the cool September air to meet Ron, Neville and Hannah. Her relationship with the blonde so far had been easy-going: a stark contrast to her previous relationship with Harry. To be fair, it had been only a couple of weeks since they started dating properly and neither of them had been seriously threatened with death yet or possessed by a Dark wizard, so it was already going well.

Neville and Hannah were already flirting shamelessly once Luna and Ginny arrived, and Ron practically lit up the moment he saw them. The redheads gave each other pats on the back, while Luna kissed Ron on both cheeks. He handed them their respective mugs of Butterbeer, his eyes barely scanning how quickly his sister downed hers before he began speaking to them.

“About time you got here!” he exclaimed, taking a sip off his mug, “I thought that class was going to have you going  _ forever!” _

“No one can dance forever,” Luna remarked airily, “there has been numerous dancing plagues in Europe a couple of hundred years ago and thousands of people died from them.” Neville grinned at the blonde, and she could only give a shy smile in return as her tone grew sour. “Daddy said it was because of a Tarantallegra gone awry.” She smiled at her girlfriend. “Ginny here is an amazing dancer.”

The two women shared a kiss. Ron sat back on his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Is she serious, Gin?”

“She’d say that because she’s my girlfriend and she likes to say nice things,” Ginny placed an arm around her. “Besides, it’s easy to look flawless when you’ve got Pansy Parkinson next to you looking like a complete dunce - “

“Wait,” Ron interrupted, downing the Butterbeer and asking for another round. “Did you say  _ Pansy Parkinson?  _ She’s roaming in the world with her pug nose  _ scot free?” _

“Apparently so,” Ginny sighed, “unless it’s her ghost that I’ve been dancing next to for the past two weeks. Care to test my theory, Ronniekins?”

“I’ll pass,” Ron replied, downing the Butterbeer that was handed to him. Ginny did the same. Luna gave hers to Ginny, who merely took a sip and blushed.

Rolling his eyes, Ron continued, “Is she okay, though, Gin? Has she  _ done  _ anything to you?”

“Other than scowling at me every time I’m in the room, not really.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, the elder Weasley patted his sister’s shoulders. “Good. Besides, it’s not like you can’t hold your own against her, right? I bet that if she ever tried to fight you, you’d knock her down in ten seconds flat!”

“Thanks for the confidence, Ron, but I don’t think that’s necessary.”

* * *

 

During their third lesson, Pansy almost shrieked when Cho made everyone in the room hold their partners. She could barely stand the woman’s existence, let alone  _ touching  _ her for  _ minutes at a time. _

Ginny strode over to her, grabbing her hand and holding her waist. Pansy flinched at the sudden contact, her scowl deepening into an expression of pure disgust. Merlin, she  _ hated  _ it when people touched her, even Draco.  _ Especially  _ Draco.

As they danced, she watched Ginny’s eyes fade from black to tawny brown and back to black, and she found herself watching those eyes more than her feet.  _ They were nice,  _ she thought idly,  _ if I  _ liked  _ blood traitors.  _

She noticed how the redhead kept staring at her blonde girlfriend, sighing with envy at the easygoing conversation she was having with Cho. Something about it made Pansy scoff in annoyance, and when the redhead’s attention  _ was  _ on her, she made sure that she gave it all she got so that they both got some proper practice with as little touching as possible.

“You’re getting better,” Weasley had remarked absently, “finally paying attention in class, Parkinson?”

“What makes you think I’ve never paid attention?”

“You  _ know  _ that you’re a terrible dancer when it comes to it.” Pansy’s nose was flaring, and it made Ginny think of Pepperup Potion. “Oh come on, now. I faced Tom Riddle as an  _ eleven _ -year-old and you expect me to be terrified of  _ you?” _

“I don’t want you to be terrified of me, Weaselette. I want…” Come to think of it, what  _ did  _ she want? “I want you to dance with me, and pretend that whatever your girlfriend is doing doesn’t bother you. Besides, did you sign up to dance or did you sign up to stare forlornly at Loony Lovegood across the room?”

“She’s my  _ girlfriend  _ dancing with  _ another woman.  _ How am I  _ not  _ supposed to be  _ suspicious?” _

“Your girlfriend’s dancing with the  _ instructor,  _ and they’re having some  _ small talk. _ Probably talking about Boobling Himhoppers or something like that.”

“They’re called Blibbering Humdingers.”

“Well, would you rather I complain to Chang about your inability to be a  _ competent partner?” _

“Me?  _ Incompetent?  _ You were the one that was struggling with all the steps!”

“But at least I have the  _ decency  _ to pretend that I don’t hate my partner with more heat than a thousand suns - “

“ - lucky for you, the feeling’s mutual - “

“Parkinson! Weasley!” They turn to see Cho Chang with her arms folded, face scrunched up into an inscrutable anger. Next to her, Luna was worried. “Be  _ quiet  _ or I shall have to  _ insist  _ on casting Silencio on  _ both  _ your bloody mouths.”

Pansy decided to spend the rest of her lesson staring intently at the floor. She found it difficult not to count the number of freckles on her face, not to calculate the distance her eyebrows moved as she concentrated, but at least she could stare at those nimble feet and wonder how such a person could be so earthly.

_ You can’t think about that, Parkinson! She’s a blood-traitor. Focus. _

She spent most of her evening that day watching Friends on the telly, ready with a bottle of wine and a tub of ice-cream. Draco came home to that scene, smirking as he grabbed a spoon from the kitchen and slid next to his best friend, swiping some of her ice-cream. She shrieked, clutching her Ben and Jerry’s closer to her and gulping as much of the wine she could in seconds.

“You’re going to piss yourself, Parkinson,” he said, snatching the wine away from her. He took a mouthful of his own and chuckled when she grumbled. “It’s only  _ ten pounds  _ from  _ Tesco _ . I can always get you some more.”

“But it’s the  _ good  _ Merlot,” Pansy countered, “they don’t  _ always  _ have that in store, you know?”

“You’re drinking it while eating cookie dough ice cream, darling. Your mother will be incensed.”

“Well, my mother isn’t  _ here.”  _ She continued to eat, simpering when she saw Draco’s smile at her awful eating habits. “And neither is yours, so we might as well make the most of it.” His spoon nudged her ice-cream again, and she shook her head. “No way, Draco Malfoy. You’re going to go down to the shops and get your  _ own  _ Ben and Jerry’s like the Muggles we’re meant to be.”

He pouted. “But  _ I  _ bought that ice-cream.”

* * *

 

Muggle theatre exercises would’ve  _ really  _ come in handy in Hogwarts.

Hermione had mentioned some of the acting classes she took back in the day immensely helped her with spell casting, and that there was a reason that her spells came out as intended almost a hundred percent of the time. It was a shame that wizards underestimated the power of diction, she’d said to the redhead, sighing as she flicked through old photo albums of her performance as Belle.

Ginny didn’t  _ quite  _ get it, though there was that one time her dead ex ended up in  _ Knockturn  _ Alley as opposed to  _ Diagon  _ Alley. She tried her best to ensure that what she was saying was crystal clear, which was  _ especially  _ important considering the significance of communication on the Quidditch Pitch.

At the front of the room, Cho had mentioned that one of the reasons that the dance was considered difficult to master was not the footwork, or the rhythm, or stomaching the dreary music it came with. It was actually difficult because of some of the spellwork involved. It was said to enhance the dancing experience but only if it was done correctly. She had given them the parchment with all of the words, and that was when Hermione’s words suddenly began to make sense.

Like most of the spells they studied in Hogwarts, these incantations were in Italian, where the dance originated from. Even saying the spell with the wrong inflection could backfire on the caster spectacularly - she only needed to be somewhat acquainted with Seamus Finnigan to know  _ that  _ \- which was why it was particularly important to listen to how professors or experts said the incantation and tried to replicate it wandless at first as best as they could.

Ginny did so, paying rapt attention to the woman at the head of the room. She then repeated the incantation over and over in her head, nodding once she saw that hers matched what Cho was saying. Her dance partner, thankfully, seemed to be doing the same thing.

“Partners, get into position.”

Pansy placed her hands in Ginny’s.

“Now look each other in the eye.”

They did. Pansy’s palm was sweating.

“Now say the incantation. Leading one first, following one second.”

Ginny’s lips suddenly went dry. “Mi  _ ar _ rendo la mia mente a questa danza fino alla fine.”

Pansy said, “Mi arr _ en _ do la mia mente a questa danza fino alla fine.”

The redhead was seething.  _ Dammit, Parkinson - _

A bright yellow sparkle enveloped both of their bodies, and Ginny found that she could barely see outside of her own body anymore. Though the sensation on their arms were prickling, her foot felt like it was being ripped out of her sockets. The pain burned all the way up her leg, trying to hiss through the pain and cancel out the shrieks that could only be Parkinson’s.

The pain subsided, and there was one more shriek.

One of her wide-set feet was replaced with one that was significantly smaller and thinner, wearing a pair of flats that look like it came out of an ancient  _ Witch Weekly  _ catalogue but still pretty nonetheless.

“What the  _ fuck?” _

“Language, Parkinson.” Luna was already on it, muttering what seemed to be the counter incantation. She growled when she found that nothing changed. Cho was skipping over towards them, humming and asking they’d spotted Nargles during their spell, because she saw some that already went away.

Ginny felt awfully guilty for thanking Merlin that the spell didn’t work as intended.

“I think you both need to go to St. Mungo’s,” Luna concluded, her tone grave, a bead of sweat forming on her forehead that looked out of place. Her eyes shifted towards the former Slytherin, who looked somewhat concerned. “Don’t worry, Parkinson. I’ll still mark you present.”

They both left the lesson, silently walking to the large hospital. Parkinson had some trouble walking, cursing herself as she kept stumbling and misstepping, and Ginny would laugh at her if she didn’t keep tripping herself.

They did not go their separate ways that night. Luna - with her own mind and not Cho’s, thank Merlin - joined them at the Leaky Cauldron with Ron. Even Malfoy managed to finish his day at the firm early, and a quick phone call made sure that all the important people in both their lives were there.

“What on earth is going on, Gin?” Ron said, glaring at Malfoy, “and why does  _ he  _ have to be here?”

“Because he’s my flatmate,” Parkinson replied icily, “believe me, I don’t  _ want  _ to be in this conundrum either.”

“You call this a  _ conundrum?”  _ Ginny hissed.

“What would  _ you  _ rather call it then, Weasley? An affliction,  _ disease,  _ a  _ magical malady,  _ like the Healers say it is - “

“Shut up, all of you!” Malfoy snapped, slamming his mug of Butterbeer on the desk. He turned to the other blonde on their table. “Tell me, Lovegood. What on  _ earth  _ happened?”

“We had to do an incantation for dance class and Pansy got the incantation wrong, so they swapped a foot.”

_ “A  _ foot?”

“Yes. Ginny has one of Pansy’s feet, and Pansy has one of Ginny’s feet. At least neither of them have two left feet, though.”

Ginny didn’t think of that as a potential upside, and kissed her girlfriend on the cheek for the suggestion, thanking her for it. Parkinson snorted and Malfoy was still too horrified with the situation to  _ say  _ anything. Ron was already ordering another round of drinks, mostly for his sister’s sake.

“Considering I don’t have a wand,” Pansy eventually said, “you’re going to have to be the one to transfigure all of our shoes, Weasley. There is no way in  _ hell  _ I’m wearing those horrid Tudors of yours.”

Ginny smirked in amusement, “They’re called  _ trainers,  _ Parkinson.”

She snorted. “Whatever, blood traitor. Henry the Eighth wouldn’t touch those with a ten-foot pole.”

“Because he’s  _ dead.” _

“Gin,” Luna interrupted sharply, “I think you should just help Pansy change all her shoes.”

* * *

Pansy had never been more grateful about being unemployed. Thanks to her malady, she had a legitimate excuse not to leave the house, therefore leaving her with enough room to rant, cry and owl Daphne to her heart’s content. Draco was _livid_ when he realised _he_ had to carry all the groceries home, and sometimes when things got dire he was petty enough to leave his flatmate without dinner.

That was easy to face - Pansy was a pureblood  _ princess,  _ war be damned - but then the time of the week came again and she had to leave her house. Thanks to her favourite Greengrass (Daphne was angry when she referred to her sister as such), she had a dress that gently skirted the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, hiding her feet from view. The scheme had worked, since no one yelled anything out of the ordinary (though there was a  _ lot  _ more slut shaming than she expected) until she came to the studio.

The Slytherin simpered once she saw the redhead who now possessed her other foot. They didn’t correspond often, but Pansy had given her a tip or two when it came to her gentle nails during a pedicure. It looked fine, actually, except for the fact that they may not be trimmed enough, and she could see the Gryffindor nodding in approval at her  _ extremely  _ clean feet.

“Missed me, Weasley?” she asked, sashaying seamlessly towards the redhead. Shimmying out of her skirt, beneath the Gothic skirt was a pair of skin-hugging tights that were more appropriate for the lesson. “Your feet were in such poor condition, it took me  _ hours  _ to give them a proper pedicure.”

“You did the whole pedicure  _ yourself,  _ Parkinson?” Weasley replied dryly. “And here I thought you were a poor, wandless  _ pureblood princess.” _

“I’m hardly poor, darling.” The former Slytherin smirked, “I must say, I’m impressed with how clean my feet still are. I thought they’d be in hell right now, since you seem to be insistent on dragging them through the mud.”

“Just because I’m a Quidditch player doesn’t mean I make a habit of falling.” Her calm expression faltered, though Pansy pretended not to look as Chang told them all to practice the dance moves at their own pace.

With their slight change in anatomy, the Gryffindor was no longer fluid and easygoing. Her foot often lapped at Pansy’s like waves, the sensation a bit odd but not unwelcoming. There was one particular time where she swung her weight too far, tipping her over but she was safely cocooned in the ginger’s arms before she had time to say hi to the floor.

“That was surprisingly majestic of you,” Pansy remarked, whooping when she was tugged upwards.

“I was just being a leader, Parkinson,” Ginny said, “and are you sure that  _ you’re  _ not the one that’s making a habit of falling?”

“Hardly, Weasley.” The redhead rolled her eyes and the Slytherin snickered, trying to keep her cheeks clear of crimson. “Ah, careful there. Roll your eyes hard enough and you might end up  _ falling  _ for  _ me.” _

“Ha ha, very funny. I thought  _ you  _ already fell for  _ me. _ ”

Pansy’s guffaw made many members of the class look upon the pairing with interest. “Well,” she replied, paying them no heed, “let’s see if that has any truth to it, then. Why don’t you and Lovegood have a drink at my place?” She could  _ feel  _ the skepticism in her partner’s expression, and exhaled. “For Merlin’s sake, Weaselette. We swapped body parts. I’m sure we can handle a little bit of wine drinking.”

“Fine, Parkinson. But I’m going to ask Luna first.”

Much to Weasley’s obvious chagrin, the blonde enthusiastically agreed to the evening. The trio made their way to Pansy and Draco’s flat, and after the couple had made themselves at home Pansy brought two bottles of rosé to the table, returning to the kitchen to fetch three glasses.

“I’m  _ surprised,  _ Parkinson,” the redhead commented, “you managed to survive for a year in what you would normally call a Muggle dump.”

“Like they say, beggars can’t be choosers.” The raven-haired woman poured out three equal volumes of wine into each glass. “And for Merlin’s sake,  _ Ginevra.  _ I had the  _ kindness  _ to invite you over, you may call me Pansy.”

“If you’re going to call me Ginevra, why can’t I call you Pancetta?”

“Because that’s not my  _ actual name.” _

“If that’s not your actual name, then don’t call me Ginevra because that’s not my name either. It’s  _ Ginny.” _

“Ginevra.”

_ “Gin -  _ ny.”

“Gi  _ \- ne -  _ vra.”

“Let her call you whatever you like, Gin,” Lovegood interrupted, glass half full and in her hand. “A rose by any other name smells just as sweet.” She took a sip. “And on that note, I hope you don’t mind that I ask that you stop calling me Loony behind my back. Either Luna, Lovegood, or Luna Lovegood only, please.”

“That’s not an unreasonable request,” Pansy sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “Old habits die hard, Lovegood. The only reason I called you Loony as because everyone called you Loony.”

The conversation they had was surprisingly light-hearted, veering away subtly whenever the topic of war was broached. Perhaps it was because Luna was a deft mediator, and Ginny was more reticent than Pansy had ever given her credit for. Even then it was more likely than not that it was  _ easier  _ to pretend that they liked each other’s company without revealing the web of anxiety and fear that swelled by being in each other’s presence.

Draco came home to the sight of Ginny and Luna leaving, and smirked at his flatmate. “And you said you  _ don’t  _ like her?”

“Malfoy, that woman has my  _ foot.  _ I am mature enough to ensure that hers will stay in optimum condition when it is in my possession  _ regardless  _ of our relations, but bloody Gryffindors can’t be trusted to do the same.”

“If Potter is anything to go by, I think she’ll keep it pristine to prove that she doesn’t fall into petty traps.” He wiggled his eyebrows, sighing at the empty wine bottles. “You drank all of the rosé we had - with Ginny fucking  _ Weasley  _ and Loony bloody Lovegood - and you’re going to say that you don’t like her?”

“Shut up. And her name is  _ Luna,  _ for fuck’s sake.”

* * *

 

When Ginny received the urgent owl from Luna, she half-thought that it would be because she found a cure to her and Pansy’s dilemma. She practically rushed back to their apartment from dinner at The Burrow to find her looking somewhat pensive as she sat cross-legged on the marble tiles that lined their floor.

“What is it?” the ginger asked, grinning. She knew that her girlfriend had been doing plenty of research with Hermione, constantly owling back and forth between Britain and the States, so she was preparing for an explanation a cure.

She hadn’t been prepared for a long, elaborate explanation on how Luna felt when Neville left, how she didn’t quite understand  _ why  _ he’d fall for someone else when he had  _ her.  _ She’d let herself become a ball of resentment, and a walking ghost. But then she fell in love with Ginny, who was so beautiful inside and out, and thought that she couldn’t feel any better. Then she started speaking about someone with elegance and intelligence that brought out the best in her, things that she never thought she would be, and now she understood why Neville left when he did.

The pieces fell into place, the key unlocked the door. Ginny ran and packed her bags before she could let Luna finish.

Ginny moved into Ron’s flat, sending Luna an owl that they were done, and that she loved her but sorry couldn’t quite cover it and  _ please,  _ don’t try to explain yourself. Her brother comforted her on the nights she needed a tub of ice-cream and a back rub, sometimes going to the pub together and hanging out with Neville and Hannah and feeling somehow constricted by how  _ coupley  _ they were being. She even owled Pansy one night asking her if she could have more of that rosé and she spent the evening curled up with the Slytherin watching some movie called  _ Titanic  _ she’d only heard of because Hermione couldn’t stop talking about it when she left.

“Jack, you chivalrous arse,” Pansy grumbled, flicking her popcorn at the screen. “You can go on the plank with her too, you know? You can  _ both  _ live.”

“But it’s _more_ _romantic_ if he dies,” Ginny argued, “Merlin, Pancetta. Have you _not_ read a romance book before?”

The raven-haired woman scowled at her, “One doesn’t read when they’re the ones being read about.” She turned her attention back to the screen. “Fat excuse for a Slytherin  _ this  _ guy is. Does he not understand the word  _ self-preservation?” _

“I think he didn’t go to school, so perhaps not that exact word, no. And who said he’d be a Slytherin, Pancetta? He looks like a Gryffindor to me.”

“With awfully Slytherin tendencies.”

“Reminds me of someone I know.”

Ginny didn’t come home that night, her last moment of consciousness spent staring at the blank screen, the Slytherin already sleeping. She woke the next day to the smell of eggs and bacon in the kitchen, and was startled when she heard a plate slam onto the desk in front of her.

“Wake up, sleepy head. We have our dance class today.”

Groaning, Ginny yawned, her eyes flying open. She saw Pansy smirking at her from the armchair, back straight and shoulders relaxed as she cut and bit into a strip of bacon. Once Ginny managed to push the blanket off her, she managed to at least consume her food, the clatter and thud of cutlery the only noise present.

“I don’t have clothes, Pansy. I have to go home and get changed.”

The Slytherin shrugged her shoulders. “Then go home and get changed. We can get something to eat in Kensington and go to Diagon Alley from there. Sound good?”

“We just had breakfast.”

“But I’m  _ hungry.” _

“Fine.”

Their second breakfast took place in a pub. Ginny had fish & chips whereas Pansy had four scotch eggs. Whatever table manners Pansy was raised with had been left at home as she picked and ate them like they were fish fingers, and her companion could not help but snicker.

“You look like my brother, Parkinson.”

Placing her half-eaten egg back on the table, Pansy sighed and began perusing the fork and knife. There was a morose expression on her face. “Wow. My brother a sore spot for you?”

“No, but being compared to your brother’s animalistic table manners is a bit of an insult,” Pansy countered, “the only people that should be compared to him are Crabbe and Goyle. No offense.”

“None taken.”

An hour later, Pansy and Ginny were in the dance studio again. Ginny’s hair was up in a bun as she did some stretches on the floor. Unlike during the previous week, Pansy’s limb felt like her own, and they moved gracefully across the floor without so much as a single misstep. It was difficult not to fume when they moved anywhere near Cho and Luna, but she couldn’t help but yell at Pansy when she brought it up.

“You’ve got my foot, so I’d like to know what’s going on with you before you do something Gryffindor and brash and _murder_ my limb.”

Ginny gave her no answer, and did not fight her when the girl stormed off after class to have a chat with her ex. All she got of the Slytherin for the next week was an owl:

_ Ginevra, _

_ Lovegood found a way to reverse the spell. Tell me when and where and I’ll be there. _

_ Pansy _

* * *

Pansy received Ginny’s response approximately two days after she sent the owl.

_ Pancetta, _

_ Fine. Sunday, 4pm. Your place. _

_ Ginevra _

_ P.S. It’s Ginny, you dolt. _

She smirked as she read the owl, sending a copy to Luna. The blonde replied with a short note confirming that she did receive it and was available to help during that period. Pansy began mopping the floor, changing her sheets and vacuuming the upholstery.

Unfortunately, that time also happened to be on a Saturday morning. Draco rolled out of bed with a dishevelled head and a scowl that would rival Snape’s, yelling at Pansy to turn the fucking thing off so he could go to sleep. He made the mistake of assuming that she’d listen to him, and groaned as he shifted in his bed, tossing and turning as the hum of the vacuum forbade him from sleeping.

He must have dozed off at some point, Pansy realised, and knew that the best way to lure him out would be some breakfast. When she was whisking the eggs, she saw her friend grumble out of his room, hissing when he saw her.

“Must you  _ torture  _ me?” Draco whined, grabbing a cup of the coffee and taking a long gulp of it.

“I am  _ not  _ torturing you,” the raven-haired girl replied, pushing a plate heaped with bacon, sausages and an omelette towards him. She began to pick into her own food, “I am just getting ready to have my foot back.”

The blond raised his brow. “What? When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she grinned, sighing with joy as she ate. “Thank Merlin for Lovegood.”

“Wait, are you telling me  _ she  _ was the one who found the cure?”

“Yeah. She said she asked Granger over in the States for some books for research and one of those books had an incident very similar to ours. The way they got their foot back was deceptively simple, actually. All they had to do was say the spell backwards.”

“ _ Deceptively  _ simple? Can you say accio backwards?”

“O - key - uh.” Pansy’s smug expression was accentuated by her glittering teeth. “Now I must practice what I’m  _ actually  _ going to say tomorrow.”

“And does Weaselette know what to say?”

Her smugness faded, swearing as she decided to write an owl to the ginger. It was devoid of any other niceties, something that was uncommon in the Slytherin’s own letter-writing to Daphne, but sent it anyway.

Another sleep came and went and sooner than expected Pansy and Ginny were back in their dancing positions: one hand was on Pansy’s waist, the other on Ginny’s shoulder, another pair entwined at shoulder level.

“Enif alla onif aznad atseuq a etnem aim al odnerra im,” Ginny recited, glaring at her partner.

In response, the Slytherin had a wide smirk on her face. “Enif alla onif aznad atseuq a etnem aim al odnerra im.”

Again, there was that bright yellow light that seemed to encircle them. Pansy jerked her fingers away as she could feel lightning shocks all the way around her ankle, and a loud pop as she felt her bone dislocate. She shrieked as she saw her footless leg, hearing a loud crack, the feeling of a needle piercing through her skin absolutely painful as she looked down and almost cried at the sight. 

She had two feet now. Both size four, and both a little too pale.

The yellow light quickly dissipated after that, and she saw that Ginny too had both feet back. Pansy squealed, throwing herself into the redhead’s arms. They shared a loud, boisterous giggle that bounced off the walls and into each other’s ears. It brought Pansy back to the days of Hogwarts youth, before the war and You-Know-Who placed them at opposite ends of the spectrum.

There was something warm about the ginger’s arms. Perhaps it was how the muscle peeked out from the fabric of her shirt, the heartbeat that synchronised with hers, and brown eyes that didn’t turn to night when Pansy looked at them. The fact that she was a blood traitor yet her blood was still as blood red as her own; she’d seen it in the Battle of Hogwarts.

But she knew that such things didn’t matter to her anymore.

So she leaned upwards, on her tiptoes as she captured Ginny’s lips between hers. Her lips tasted like cherry and chocolate, and though she smelled like sweaty Quidditch gear Pansy found that she liked the scene. There was something that set every nerve in her body alight, a warm sensation she was not wholly familiar with. She gasped when the ginger pulled her closer, her arms wrapped around her back.

Pansy broke off the kiss, her cheeks reddening.  _ Merlin knows what would happen if Mother found out about this.  _ “I - I shouldn’t have done that.”

Ginny frowned, “And why ever not?”

Pansy’s gaze turned to steel. “You just broke up with your ex, Weasley. That was inappropriate.”

The ginger exhaled, rubbing her temples. She replied, ”Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Pansy attempted a smile. “See you Wednesday?”

“See you.”

* * *

 

Three days had passed since Ginny got her foot back - and since her lips had touched Pansy’s - but the fact didn’t quite sink in until she entered the dance lesson in her usual ensemble of a tank top, leggings and sneakers that were both size seven. It didn’t quite sink in until she saw Pansy’s choice for their final dance was a Victorian dress - corset and hooped skirt and all - and she burst out laughing. She noticed how her petite feet peeked out from beneath her skirt, dress in nude ballet flats that matched her pale skin, as pale as hers, but somehow different.

“We’re dancing in a  _ studio, _ Pansy,” Ginny remarked in an awkward attempt at small talk, taking her partner’s hand and kissing it. “Why on earth are you acting like you just got to a society ball?”

“Because this is the closest I’ll ever be to one ever again,” she replied, a faint shade of red colouring her cheeks. “And besides, this is a  _ dance,  _ Ginevra. You’re meant to be dressed to the nines.” She twirled, still holding onto the ginger’s hand.

“Does this mean I’m  _ frightfully  _ underdressed, Miss Pancetta?”

“Yes, though there’s nothing you can do about it, Miss Ginevra.”

The Slytherin tugged her towards the dancefloor, where everyone had taken their positions. Ginny tried to keep her eyes the tight embrace that Cho and Luna were in, the blood boiling and her temper flaring. Pansy had to stamp her petite foot on top of hers to keep her attention on her.

“Now, now, we’re being  _ graded  _ on this,” she hissed, “I  _ insist  _ on getting a good one.”

The music began, an array of twinkling chimes and harp scales setting the scene. The women took their respective positions, ready for the music to do its usual diminuendo.

Ginny said, “Mi  _ ar _ rendo la mia mente a questa danza fino alla fine.”

Pansy smirked. “Mi  _ ar _ rendo la mia mente a questa danza fino alla fine.”

There was a weightlessness Ginny had never felt as she felt her mind pushing itself out of her skull. She took a deep breath, exhaling, but she found that she couldn’t stop exhaling. Her heart hammered as her vision went black, and the first thing she saw was herself scowling. She laughed at the reaction before Pansy pulled her closer.

The crescendo of violins brought chills up Ginny’s spine no matter how many times she heard it before. Pansy was a natural leader, she realised, flawlessly leading the dance with ease. She did not look out of place several inches taller with a body more muscular than her own. Perhaps a Pansy in any other form was just as sweet, too.

She immediately blushed at the thought, and she almost tripped on her feet. Her partner hissed as she did so, tugging her back upwards. The Slytherin’s eyebrows raised at her increased strength, but they continued to dance. Pansy gently twirled her partner around, her gaze reminding Ginny keep her focus on her. The lock of two pairs of brown eyes made her heart skip a beat, her lips parted, and gently fit her hands within the woman’s.

The dance concluded with their respective solos. Pansy’s pas de chats were more graceful than Ginny remembered, and she smirked at the sight. Ginny’s - or rather Pansy’s - petite form allowed her to be more agile, throwing her leg up horizontally for the arabesque and managing to turn much quicker since her centre of gravity was closer to the ground. At the end of everything, they held each other just like in the beginning of the dance, sharing warm smiles that cemented something between them.

They said the words again, their tongues flowing through them like muscle memory often does, their differing voices barely crossing their minds. They had heard too much of each other’s voices to do that.

The next time Ginny could breathe was when she was back in her body again, and there was something oddly fulfilling and missing about being herself, and by the flicker of confusion present on Pansy’s face she bet she felt the same.

At the same time as she felt joy at finally finishing her dance classes, she felt sad that she was never going to be able to see Pansy on the regular again. Sure, she could visit her flat whenever, but then the Holyhead Harpies qualified for the Women’s European Quidditch Championships.

She should really tell her about that.

“That was… riveting,” Pansy replied, “let’s go back for drinks. You can even take Weasel with you.”

“You can’t call my brother Weasel and call me Ginevra,” Ginny replied, “and besides, I can’t. I’ll be in the continent starting tomorrow.”

The raven-haired woman’s face tightened. “You  _ can’t  _ be serious.”

“Yeah, I perfectly am.” She gave her a wan smile. “Look, it’s only until December at the  _ latest.  _ It’s the first time the Harpies have qualified in a while. I highly doubt we’ll do very well.”

“You will,” Pansy insisted, “I bet you will.”

Ginny sniggered. “For someone who hates me, you’re placing quite a bit of hope in me.”

“I haven’t hated you for a while now,” Pansy admitted, “it’s more like severely  _ irritated  _ and  _ annoyed _ with.”

They came back Ginny’s apartment to see that it was empty, a charmed Muggle backpack containing all she needed for her trip lying near the doorway. Ginny turned to face Pansy, whose face had grown remarkably pale.

“This is a real goodbye, huh?” Pansy asked.

“Yeah. For now,” Ginny replied, her tone level, “we’ll catch up again when I come back.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

Pansy kissed her cheek, “I hope so.”

The Gryffindor have her dance partner a hug, letting herself mold into the gentle curves of the other woman. If Ginny was a sculpture made by Michelangelo, Pansy was a tree, strong but unique in frame, quick to adapt to changing conditions. Her cheek was still warm from where the girl had kissed her, and her body felt cold for the hours after she left.

* * *

After her two months of unemployment, Pansy managed to return to the corporate ladder - at the very bottom, of course. She was now a secretary at some fancy business firm with an odd name (what sort of establishment called themselves _Virgin?)_ She only saw bits and pieces of how the company worked and oh Merlin, she knew several things they were doing wrong, but she was too busy punching holes and writing things with a charmed pen to worry about what people did at the top before she even got there.

Draco’s raise gave her a shimmer of hope that she could make it someday. To celebrate, they went out for  _ proper  _ dinner that didn’t involve fish or chips in the slightest, but more of the filet mignon and foie gras that they were accustomed to in their youth. They drank down Merlot that cost more than twenty quid, and it was the best night Pansy had in years.

Sometimes, when work died down, her thoughts did stumble upon the redhead. She saw her in the Prophet sometimes, how she was breaking several records in Quidditch that would surely cement her place in history, even if the Harpies barely got past the qualifying round.  _ Good for her. _

Pansy got her wand back a few days before Halloween, and having the enabler of magic made something thrum in her veins. It was almost odd, though, that the first thing she thought of doing was to go tell  _ Ginny  _ about it. She knew she was back - she’d received an owl from Luna confirming the news, for whatever reason - but she couldn’t quite bring herself to  _ see  _ the Gryffindor.

Was that her way of accepting the fact that perhaps she  _ did  _ have some sort of  _ feelings  _ towards her? Probably.

November came and went, and somewhere in the middle of that Pansy received quite the invitation.

_ You are cordially invited to the wedding of Hermione Granger & Theodore Nott. _

* * *

When Ginny received the invitation to the wedding, she honestly could not believe it.

Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age had gotten herself married to Theodore Nott, the slimiest Slytherin in what was sure to be the wedding of the century. Hell, even the  _ millennium. _

(And the wedding was on January 3rd, 2000.)

Ginny and Ron were Maid of Honour and groomsman respectively, and with time like putty in their hands Theo and Hermione could host two rehearsals: one for Slytherin members of the party and one for the other Houses. Hell, even their stag and hen nights were divided by House, not gender. Ginny didn’t quite get what her best friend was playing at before she realised that she was just trying to prevent any deaths  _ before  _ the wedding.

On the day, Cho and Luna were still acting unbearably cheesy, though Ginny did not find it as repulsive as she used to. She had managed to remain somewhat cordial to her ex-girlfriend and her ex-boyfriend’s ex, and aside from their extensive use of PDA and their dance classes, the redhead found that Cho was an incredibly intelligent,  _ okay  _ human being.

Soon after Hermione’s hair was ready - with the assistance of Lavender Brown and under Narcissa Malfoy’s supervision,  _ of all people  _ \- the bridesmaids gathered in her room, helping her pick some pieces of jewellery. Pansy was there too, and Ginny was keeping her eyes away from her. Instead, she paid attention to Luna, who had actually chosen a pair of odd-shaped earrings that fit well with the outfit, if one didn’t step any closer than ten feet from her.

Most of the bridesmaids left after Hermione  _ insisted  _ she spoke with Narcissa alone, and that left Ginny and Pansy sharing a table drinking from two identical flutes of champagne. Perfect.

The Slytherin alumna was in the same dress she was in: a Grecian, one-shoulder dress in an shade of baby blue that reached her knee. Her hair had only grown a little from the bob that made her distinguishable from afar, and so she was spared the arduous routine that Ginny herself was given. It didn’t matter, because she looked  _ beautiful,  _ and she was aching to say it, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“You look nice, Weasley,” Pansy said, taking a long gulp of her champagne, “did you bring a date?”

“Thank you, and no,” Ginny replied. She attempted to resist the urge to simply down her drink, but she failed and did it anyway. “You look nice too, Parkinson. Did  _ you  _ bring a date?”

“Unless you count your half-drunk best friend who’s  _ also  _ the best man, then no, though I thank you for the compliment,” she deadpanned, her tone as acerbic as the drink. “I’m quite surprised. I thought you and Lovegood would get back together soon enough.”

“No, she’s still with Cho.” Her lips curled when she saw the raised eyebrow the other woman had on her face. “I know, right? But sometimes you find love where it’s not supposed to be, like with your dance instructor, and sometimes, it works out.”

Pansy gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Sometimes. Other times you  _ think  _ it’s going to work out but that plan spectacularly blows up in your face, you get me?”

She did.

The ceremony came, and Hermione - ever the feminist - decided to change the layout of the venue from the typical bride-walking-to-the-aisle setting. On one side of the ballroom, the Gryffindor linked arms with the father, making the way towards the centre. On the other, Theodore linked his arms with her mother - his own parents dead (his mother) or in Azkaban (his father) and therefore unavailable to escort him to the altar. Behind them were the bridesmaids and groomsmen respectively, Ginny then Pansy then Luna on one side, Draco then Blaise then Ron on the other.

After some tear jerking vows and a kiss that was bordering on inappropriate, they were free to go. Luna dashed back to her girlfriend, Blaise shooing journalists and beetles out of the venue, and the rest of the party were at the bar, seeing who could get pissed first.

“Draco’s won, mate,” Ron argued, the blond already cut off and downing shot after shot of water. “We don’t  _ need  _ this contest anymore.”

“But he already had a head start,” Pansy frowned, “that’s hardly fair, Weasley.”

“And neither of you did?”

They both shook their heads.

“Besides, this is one of the few days where I’ve seen Theo  _ actually  _ happy,” Pansy elaborated, “I’d rather not be the reason to ruin it, thanks.”

The music changed to something that felt familiar in Ginny’s ears, and next to her, Pansy was smirking and grabbing her hand. Ron mumbled something about leaving him to clean up the mess  _ again  _ and was trying to escort Draco onto the floor without much success.

They had arrived just in time for the music to begin, the tinkling chimes and harp setting Ginny’s nerves ablaze. She was surprised when the incantation slipped out of her tongue like they had always been there. The similar of weightlessness seemed to intensify the longer she went without it, and in some respects it felt a lot like getting drunk off her feet. Despite her feet struggling to regain memory of the steps, her eyes were still focused on the woman in front of her, who had her classic Slytherin smirk in place.

Concluding the dance in her own form, Ginny’s eyes could not bear to stray away from Pansy’s, and wondered how she had hated the woman so fiercely once. She still got on her nerves - that was never going to change - but something in the redhead snapped.

Pansy might not have made an effort to see her, but she was Ginny fucking Weasley and she never took things standing down.

So she cupped her face in her hands, tilting her chin up to gently press her lips up to hers. Pansy’s lips remained still for a moment before they began to respond enthusiastically, nipping and biting Ginny’s lips enough to bruise them. They parted when the Gryffindor could hear her pants, begging for air, and even then her eyes refused to move themselves from the petite woman’s face.

“You’re going to send Granger into a heart attack,” Pansy commented, “at her  _ own  _ wedding. What a cruel friend you are.”

“She’ll live,” Ginny replied, kissing her again.

They didn’t notice how Ron fainted from his seat in the bar and the numerous flashes of the camera behind them.


End file.
